


New-Found-Land

by archwrites (Arch)



Series: To Make Much of Time [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Aftercare, Bathing/Washing, Doggy Style, F/M, Missing Scene, POV Peggy Carter, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Vaginal Sex, World War II, is 'doggy style' really the best tag we have for rear-entry positions?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-09-13 07:52:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9113782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arch/pseuds/archwrites
Summary: After Project Rebirth, Peggy and Steve take his new body for a test drive.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [indiefic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/indiefic/gifts).



> A Steggy Secret Santa gift for indiefic, who likes unseen moments in canon. I’m not sure how canonical this unseen moment is, but I like to think VERY. :D I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> Many thanks to my beta, intosnarkness, who is fantastic in every way, especially in re: the history of elastic.
> 
> This story takes place immediately after In Private.
> 
> Also, there’s a fair amount of talk in this fic about Steve adjusting to his new, post-serum body. Although the point of these conversations is acceptance, those who struggle with dysphoria may want to be wary.

The sun is still laying down wide stripes on the floor of the hotel lobby. It hardly seems possible that it’s still the same day, that so much can have happened in one morning: a scientific miracle, betrayal and murder, a superhuman car chase — all before lunch. 

Peggy has finally managed to escape the whirlpool of SSR paperwork and track Steve here, only to be stonewalled by the young woman at the front desk. 

‘My husband doesn’t know I’ve come to town,’ she confides, changing tack. She marshals her most formidable aura of respectability: posture straight, accent crisp. ‘We have only this one night together before…’

The clerk’s face falls. ‘I see,’ she says. ‘He’s in the penthouse suite.’ 

‘He’s _where_?’ Peggy says, sure she misheard.

‘The penthouse suite,’ the clerk repeats with a defiant tilt of her chin. Peggy suspects that Steve’s won this honour based on the understanding that the clerk would join him there later. She wonders if he even noticed the flirtation, given how hapless he is at the best of times and how distracted he is now. 

‘How lovely,’ Peggy says. ‘What a treat for our last night together.’

‘Yes, madam,’ the clerk says. ‘You’ll want the elevator on the right.’

Peggy thanks the clerk and makes her way to the lift, feeling ridiculously conscious of the eyes on her back the whole way.

The lift opens into a beautiful modern foyer. The double door to the suite is embellished with an elegant sunburst. There’s no answer when she knocks, so she uses a hairpin to pick the lock. 

The sitting room is opulently appointed in primrose and black, with long, low couches and chic little striped armchairs. Peggy takes off her hat drops it, along with her pocketbook, on the credenza.

‘Steve?’ she calls.

‘In here,’ comes the dispirited response.

She finds him in the bedroom: nine miles of muscle in a skimpy pair of jockey shorts. He’s standing in front of a full-length mirror, just staring at his reflection. His newly square jaw is set, his mouth compressed in a grim line.

‘Steve?’ she says. She closes the door quietly behind her. ‘How are you doing?’

‘I heard your footsteps on the carpet outside the suite,’ he says, still not looking at her. His voice sounds just the same, somehow, even though it’s resonating through that massive chest. 

There’s a bathrobe lying on the bed just behind him. He could have put it on when he heard her coming. She tries not to speculate too much on what it means that he didn’t.

She edges closer. ‘So your senses are considerably augmented, then?’

‘I can see red and green now,’ he continues, and she takes it as confirmation. ‘Your lips, when I came out of that machine…’ He trails off and goes silent for a moment. Her cheeks go hot, but she waits. ‘And I can run fast enough to catch up with a car; I can jump ten feet or more. I grew almost a foot. I’ve banged my shoulders on every doorway I’ve walked through and hit my head on the car frame getting in and getting out. And even after crashing through a store window and fighting with that Hydra agent, I don’t have any cuts or bruises at all.’

Peggy, who is covered in incipient bruises all down her side from where he tackled her, carefully says nothing. Being sweet and nurturing isn’t really in her skill set. If he would cross the room, if he would touch her, she could make him forget, at least for a while. Frankly, since sleeping with him the previous night, she’d very much like to see what he could do in this newer body with that strategic mind and desire to please.

She’s got some reservations about that, too, though: she feels a pang of loss for the old Steve, all eyelashes and elbows. She liked his slight weight and delicate bones and clever, nimble fingers.

At least his hips are still narrow enough to fit comfortably between her thighs.

She’s staring a bit at his firm little rump, rounder than before but less changed than the rest of him, when she realises that he’s watching her in the mirror. She lifts her chin.

‘You look at me differently now,’ he says. 

‘Not especially,’ she replies. ‘You’ve just started noticing how I’ve always looked at you. You do remember last night?’

He blushes and looks back at his reflection. ‘It’s the body I always wanted,’ he says. ‘But was it worth it? To be a figurehead and not a soldier?’

It’s easy to see how his grief for Erskine is getting tangled up in Colonel Phillips’s dismissal. _You are not enough._ She moves closer. ‘It’s a body, Steve. It’s what you make of it, just as it would be if you’d been born with that body.’

He shifts and then visibly pulls himself together, straightening his enormous shoulders. ‘You’re right. I’m being…’

‘Dramatic?’ she suggests.

She can see the second it dawns on him that he’s almost naked and fretting in front of someone he’d much rather impress: he goes scarlet and makes a grab for the robe.

‘Oh, I don’t think there’s any need for that,’ she says. 

He clutches it to his chest anyway, as if in defense of his maidenly virtue. Having pretty thoroughly plundered his maidenhood already, Peggy presses her lips together so that she doesn’t laugh. He turns around fully to face her, and her breath catches at the expression in his eyes: sad, lost, anxious. 

_Distraction maneuver_ , she thinks, slightly panicky, and starts taking off her clothes.

‘What if it goes away?’ he says, appearing to take no notice of her actions. ‘What if I have to go back to being an asthmatic ninety-pound weakling?’

Peggy makes an interrogatory noise, drapes her jacket on the arm of the settee at the foot of the bed, and unzips her skirt.

He goes silent for a moment. ‘I know,’ he says, as if in response to her, while she hooks her thumbs in her waistband and hauls down skirt and petticoat together. ‘I could find a way to be useful still. I’ve been through basic training. I’ve always had skills to offer; I just couldn’t get into basic training to prove it before. But Erskine gave me that, too.’

‘Mmm-hmm,’ she says, unbuttoning her blouse. She lays it neatly on top of the jacket, skirt, and petticoat and attacks her girdle.

And then Steve is right there, close behind her, his hands covering hers as she unfastens the long row of hooks holding the girdle together. ‘Let me,’ he says, his voice low.

She shivers and lets her hands drop. ‘Very well,’ she says.

He works at a deliberate pace, his breath warm against the sensitive skin behind her ear. When he finishes, he casts the girdle aside and unfastens her brassiere, too. She lets him draw it gently down her arms and arches back against him as he cups her breasts in his hands. His thumbs brush across her nipples, which are still darker than normal, still swollen and sensitive from his eager suckling the night before. She hisses, just a little.

‘Sorry,’ he says, moving his hands down her sides. ‘Is that — did I — last night —’

‘Yes,’ she replies. She brings his hands back up. ‘But I like it.’

‘Christ,’ he breathes, and then she turns her head and he’s kissing her with a hot, slow slide of tongue.

And kissing her. And kissing. She finally has to break away, gasping for air.

‘Huh,’ Steve says. ‘Usually I’m the one wheezing.’

‘Oh, stuff it,’ she retorts. She tilts her head and tugs him down to kiss her neck. ‘Some of us still have normal, non-super lungs.’

His breath is hot as he gently presses his mouth against her. He’s broad and warm behind her, and he moves so carefully that it might seem calculated and deliberate — except that he’s trembling.

‘Steve,’ she says. 

He buries his face in the nape of her neck and wraps his arms around her waist. ‘Yeah.’

She reaches back with one hand to run her fingers through the short hair at the base of his skull. ‘What are you afraid of?’

His shoulders go rigid. His hips twitch against her, his erection prodding the small of her back for just a moment before he backs off again. ‘Sorry. Sorry. I just… I want you so much, but I — Peggy, earlier I ripped a car door off its hinges.’

‘Ah,’ she says. She turns in his arms, pushes in close, slips both hands up into Steve’s hair. He shuts his eyes and shivers. ‘Were you trying to rip the car door off its hinges?’

His eyebrows draw together into that little furrow that she loves. ‘Yes.’ 

‘I thought so,’ she says. She takes her hands out of his hair to trail them down his chest and the tensing planes of his abdomen, under the elastic waist of his jockey shorts. She drags the waistband down and watches as his dick bounces back up. Just last night his dick was a nice, normal size. His body was so small that it even looked rather large, proportionally. Today it matches his enormous new body: longer and thicker, though shaped the same, foreskin stretched back over the smooth, blunt curve of the head. 

‘Do I pass muster?’ Steve asks, his voice very quiet and very low.

Peggy glances up, surprised at the seriousness of his question. Only Steve Rogers could volunteer for a scientific experiment, come through it with the body of a god, and then _not_ start preening like a peacock. ‘Well, you’re out of uniform,’ she says. She wraps one hand around the hot length of him and leans up for a kiss, which he eagerly provides. ‘But I suppose I can overlook it, if you’re prepared to turn in a performance as satisfying as last night’s. It’s a high standard, but I think you can manage.’

‘ _Peggy_ ,’ he says, fervent and grateful. He kisses her again, making desperate noises into her mouth as she strokes his cock. Finally he breaks away. ‘But what if —’

She guides his hand beneath the waistband of her underwear, and he stops talking. He tangles his fingers in the silky fabric and gently tugs them down over the curves of her hips and arse, until he can let them fall to her feet.

‘I’m not afraid of you,’ she says, pulling him back until they both tumble onto the bed. ‘I know you.’

Steve lets out a little whimper and kisses her fiercely, his arms braced on either side of her shoulders. He’s so broad that his shoulders are blocking out most of the light. She spreads her legs wider and tilts her hips to try to get him inside her. 

‘Wait,’ he says. He sits back on his heels.

‘It’s all right, I put the Dutch cap in before I came here.’ She reaches out for him. ‘Come back.’

‘I want to look at you in the light,’ he says, blushing as if he’s said something rude.

‘Oh,’ she replies, pleased. ‘Well, go on, then.’

As he studies her, she studies him. It’s uncanny to see his familiar features in that square-jawed face. But his eyes are still blue and long-lashed, and his lower lip is still biteably lush, even if his shoulders are three times as wide.

And the muscles he has now — he can go for _hours_ , she thinks suddenly, as her eyes wander down those well-defined pads of muscle to lock on his prick standing up all proud and pink. It twitches under her gaze, leaving a wet smear on Steve’s firm belly and bouncing heavily. She licks her lips, and it jerks again.

Meanwhile, Steve reaches out to cup her breast in his hand. ‘Still so full,’ he murmurs.

Peggy’s cheeks get hot. ‘Yes, well, I haven’t gone through any radical breast-shrinking procedures since the last time you touched me,’ she says, a little defensively.

‘No, I meant — you’re beautiful,’ Steve says. ‘I was worried that you would seem smaller now, but you don’t.’

‘And that’s good?’

He swipes his thumb over her nipple. ‘You’ve always been bigger than me. I don’t want you to be small.’

She takes his hand and brings it up to her mouth to kiss the knuckles. ‘I like you both big and small,’ she tells him. ‘But I’m glad your skin is back to normal.’

Steve leans back. ‘My skin,’ he says.

‘Yes.’ She grins up at him. ‘You came out of that machine all golden brown, like a Christmas goose just out of the oven.’

He laughs. ‘And now I’m back to looking like an uncooked goose,’ he says wryly. 

‘Exactly,’ she agrees, running her fingers up the side of his thigh. ‘But I think the important point here is that you _are_ a goose.’

He shivers at her touch and huffs out a laugh. ‘It was strange to look down and see myself looking so tan. I wish it hadn’t faded.’

‘Oh, but I like that you look like you've never seen the sun in your life, like your Irish forebears.’

‘You leave my Irish forebears out of it, you limey, you tan —’

She gasps and flips them, landing with her knees on either side of his hips, her hands holding his wrists above his head. ‘I’ll send you to _see_ your forebears, you horrid Yank,’ she starts to say, but she gets cut off when he flips them again. There’s a mad scramble, both of them laughing, and when she’s finally pinned across the bed she’s lying on her stomach with Steve stretched out along her back, holding her down with her wrists pinned and his erection trapped hot and hard between them — and the mood changes in a split second.

She spreads her knees wide and tilts her arse up. ‘Like this,’ she breathes. ‘Come on, Steve, I want you.’

‘Yeah, okay,’ he says. His cock slides along her and then bumps up at just the right place, the fat, blunt head nudging at her clitoris. She was already wet, but she opens up even more, growing plump and slick for him as he slips along the length of her. 

‘Here,’ he says against her cheek. He reaches out a long arm, reels in a pillow from the head of the bed, and shoves it under her hips. ‘Should be more comfortable.’

‘Mmm,’ she says, turning her head to kiss him. ‘Thank you. Now, please.’

She twists and reaches to guide him to the right place, and then he pushes in and they both groan.

‘Okay?’ he asks, breathless.

‘Superb,’ she tells him. ‘Now move.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ he says, gasping a little, and starts to move.

Christ, he’s big now. He’s draped over her, huge and hot all over: his breath hot in her ear, his skin hot against her back, his cock hot as it works in and out of her. 

‘Steve,’ she says. ‘Steve.’

His breath catches. ‘No,’ he says, much to her confusion, and then he pushes deep inside her and lets out a little moan and she realises that he’s coming already.

His orgasm seems to last for ages. He’s not even finished when she starts to feel it trickling out of her. He’d already provided a post-serum semen sample at the lab; how much more could he possibly have?

She waits for him to finish. It’s a bit disappointing, she supposes, but he’s got clever hands and a deep desire to please. He’ll make sure she gets hers.

‘Sorry,’ he says eventually, his weight pressing her into the mattress. He kisses her shoulder apologetically. ‘I — give me a minute.’

Her muscles twitch around his cock, which is deflating rather more slowly than she’d expected. 

‘Oh,’ he says. ‘Do that again, and it won’t take a minute.’

‘Really,’ she murmurs, and clenches down on him intentionally.

He moans. ‘God,’ he says. ‘I’m — it’s so sensitive, but you feel so good —’

She squeezes again obligingly, and then realises — ‘Are you hard again already?’ she asks, incredulous.

In response, he pulls out and then thrusts deep. ‘It’s just — you feel _so good_ ,’ he repeats.

‘Evidently,’ she replies, but oh, he feels incredible, dragging almost all the way out and plunging back in. She rocks her hips in counterpoint. ‘Steve, yes, just like this.’

The long, powerful thrusts are making the most awful wet sounds, and she’s mortified to discover that she likes them, that she wants more, that she wants him to come inside her over and over again and just keep on going through it all. 

She’s letting out humiliating little cries now. But so is Steve, so maybe there’s no room for shame here. He’s not put off by her obvious desire: he likes her appetite, he likes her wet and slippery, he doesn’t think less of her or suspect her morals because she likes sex. He wants her, not in spite of her demanding, take-charge personality but because of it. 

He doesn’t want her to be smaller for him.

She turns her head and finds Steve’s mouth. Their kisses are rough, graceless; Steve’s obviously too focused on maintaining that inexorable rhythm to be able to kiss her with any level of finesse at all. 

He feels wonderful inside her, but she’s not going to come without more stimulation. She tries to work her hand between her belly and the pillow.

Steve’s pace slows. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing, keep going,’ she says. ‘I just need… more.’

‘Like last night?’

‘Yes,’ she replies, and then he’s touching her exactly right. ‘That’s perfect. Oh, Steve.’

He kisses her ear, then the nape of her neck, and starts really putting his back into it, even though he’s supporting himself with only one arm. She meets each thrust. The slap of skin is loud, and the wet noises of their joining, and the smack of his balls against her. The headboard has started banging against the wall so vigorously that people three floors below them can probably feel it.

And then Steve changes the angle just a little, rubs her clitoris just a bit faster. She comes in a rippling full-body explosion of bliss, muffling a long, loud cry in the mattress. He keeps moving for a few more moments, but he drives deep and comes himself while she’s still pulsing around him.

He collapses on her. They twitch through aftershocks for a while, until Steve’s cock softens enough to slide out. She doesn’t mind his weight at first, but the pillow is putting uncomfortable pressure on her belly.

‘Steve,’ she says, through a mouthful of her own hair. She grimaces and removes it from her mouth. ‘Steve, you have to move.’

‘Mmmph,’ he says as he flops to the side.

She heaves herself up on shaky arms and rolls awkwardly off the bed. She’s going to need to wash herself, and there is a truly enormous wet spot on the counterpane where she was lying. They’ve probably made a mess of the pillow, too.

She grabs the bathrobe from the floor where it’s fallen and wraps herself in it on the way to the washroom. It’s as lavish as everything else in this suite. She uses the toilet while she runs the bath. The hot water is scalding and plentiful; she had planned to wash up quickly, but there’s an array of neatly labeled vials on a shelf behind the tub, and the prospect of a long, rose-scented soak is too appealing to pass by.

‘Steve,’ she calls as she lowers herself into the suds. ‘Come here.’

He appears in the doorway a few seconds later, his hands cupped modestly over his prick. 

‘Care to join me?’ she asks.

He hesitates.

‘You don’t have to, of course,’ she says, a little stung. ‘If you’d rather not.’

‘No!’ he says. ‘I mean, yes, I want to,’ and he climbs into the other end of the tub, giving her an eyeful of soft pink cock and full, round balls.

She studies him as he settles. His eyes are downcast, his shoulders hunched. She suspects that she’s undone all her earlier efforts by leaving the bed so quickly, especially after treating him so brusquely the night before. What would someone sweeter do, she wonders, to make up for having been callous?

After a minute, she takes the soap and goes up on her knees. Steve’s eyes lift to watch the water cascade off her breasts. ‘Come here, darling,’ she says. ‘Let me wash you.’

He looks up at her and scoots forward a bit, sending the water sloshing. She works up a lather with the soap and a facecloth. ‘Get your hair wet,’ she tells him.

He dips his head below the water and comes up smoothly, without spluttering and without opening his eyes. He just tilts his face toward her trustfully. 

She bites her lip on a smile. ‘I’ve smeared my lipstick all over you,’ she says as she washes his face. ‘Keep your eyes closed.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ he murmurs.

Gently, carefully, she wipes the lipstick away, then drops the cloth behind her so she can wash his hair. She clutches the soap in her right hand as she works the suds into his scalp. His skull feels so fragile in her hands, especially behind the ears where the skin is thin and delicate. She forces herself not to be businesslike, but to move slowly, to luxuriate in the soft prickles of the short hair at the nape of his neck, to cradle his head in her hands.

‘Hold this for me while I rinse you,’ she says. He holds his hand out silently, and she gives him the soap. She keeps scrubbing at his hair until she’s sure the suds are gone, and then she takes the soap back.

His arms come up to wrap around her hips.

She washes his neck, feeling the muscles at the base of his skull and then the bumps of bone lower. She tilts his chin up and runs her thumbs lightly over his vulnerable throat, where his pulse races, where his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows audibly.

And then she goes out over the broad stretch of collarbone and shoulder: right side first, then left. She leans close so she can reach down his back. He buries his face between her breasts and clutches her tighter.

She has to pull away, though, once she’s finished. ‘I need to wash your arms now, darling,’ she says. She rinses her left hand so that she can caress his face: run a finger down the bridge of his nose, slide her thumb across those full, pink lips. He kisses it. ‘Lift your arm for me.’

He does. She manipulates it up over his head so she can wash his armpit, then works her way up the rest of his arm, over those gigantic muscles, to wash each of his fingers. She repeats the process with his other arm.

He’s gasping by the time she lets his other hand drop. He’s pink all the way down to his nipples, and the tip of his hard cock breaches the surface of the water. His eyes are still closed.

‘Very good,’ she tells him. 

His only response is a soft sound in the back of his throat. 

She puts a hand on his chest and pushes him back, marveling at how easily he goes. ‘Now your legs. You can open your eyes, darling.’

His eyes are hot and dark as she washes his feet and his calves, working her way up to his knees, up his thighs to the line where they disappear into the water.

‘Sweetheart,’ she says. ‘Up on your knees.’

‘Oh,’ he says, sounding dazed, but he pushes himself up. 

‘Spread them as wide as you can,’ she tells him, and starts with the line of muscle on the outside of each thigh, moving slowly inward and upward. His cock bobs repeatedly. He’s breathing more heavily now than he was after hauling a Hydra agent out of the water. 

‘Peggy,’ he says, agonised, ‘please.’ 

She cups his balls in her soapy hand and gently rubs them clean. They tighten in her grasp; when her fingers slip back to wash behind them, he lets out a helpless cry and comes in long, messy spurts.

‘Shh,’ she says, stroking him gently. ‘Shh, darling, you’re so good. Look at all that.’

He buries his face in his hands and sits back on his heels. The water splashes up over the back of the tub. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says.

‘For what?’ she asks, bewildered.

He waves his hand despairingly at his come-splattered torso. And at hers. ‘Each time I hope I’m going to have more control, and I don’t, and then there’s so _much_ of it...’

‘Oh,’ she says. Is this what was causing his shame earlier, then? ‘Steve, I don’t mind it. I rather like it, actually.’

He gives her a deeply skeptical look. She laughs and topples forward, knowing he’ll catch her. ‘I like it,’ she repeats into his ear, wrapping her arms around his neck. ‘I like you. Every body does its own weird things, and now you have new weird things to get used to. But I liked your old body, and I like your new body, because they’re yours.’

She kisses him then, as persuasively as she can. When they part, eventually, his face is alight with blinding hope. A surge of tenderness crashes over her. She’s well on her way to falling in love with him already, and instead of being sensibly alarmed by the rapid development of these feelings, she’s just glad that he seems to feel the same.

‘Now,’ she says, searching for the soap, ‘I’m going to finish washing you, and then we’re going to drain and refill this tub with hotter water, and then you’re going to wash me. And then you’re going to ring the front desk and order us enough room service for eighty people.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ he replies, smiling like he doesn’t know how not to.

‘And after that, maybe I’ll be ready for another round or two.’ She pulls the soap triumphantly out of the water, leans in to give him a slow, promising kiss, and lets her hands wander.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from John Donne’s “Elegy XIX: To His Mistress Going to Bed”, because I am a goddamn hero for having written this many Captain America fics without referencing it, and also because it’s most charming when it’s gender-swapped and Peggy’s the speaker:
>
>> Licence my roving hands, and let them go,  
> Before, behind, between, above, below.  
> O my America! my new-found-land,  
> My kingdom, safeliest when with one man mann’d,  
> My Mine of precious stones, My Empirie,  
> How blest am I in this discovering thee!  
> To enter in these bonds, is to be free;  
> Then where my hand is set, my seal shall be.  
> 
> 
> If you like Steve Rogers and/or Star Wars, please join me in yelling about them at archwrites on Tumblr.


End file.
